


Akira on the Canvas

by foxjar



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Kurusu Akira, Community: ficlet_zone, Death, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Riding, Romance, Supernatural Elements, Top Kitagawa Yusuke, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 22:57:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21261017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxjar/pseuds/foxjar
Summary: After Akira passes away, Yusuke loses his motivation to paint.Akira doesn't leave him alone for too long.





	Akira on the Canvas

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [ficlet_zone's](https://ficlet-zone.dreamwidth.org) "Reverse Fandom: Amazing Stories" challenge back in August. I used the episode "Vanessa in the Garden" for inspiration.

Yusuke returns to his home full of canvases and dust. He hasn't cleaned or moved anything for weeks now; that was a task Akira took upon himself, merrily sweeping and dusting as Yusuke painted the hours away. The grime clings to the air like a foul stench, permeating every room and bringing back each agonizing memory.

His wedding ring still sits on the small table near the entryway, abandoned but never forgotten. He sees it every time he comes home, reminding him of the commitment he made.

Yusuke never thought much about marriage. It's something people do, of course — and he's seen pictures of some exquisite weddings — but he never thought about it for himself. Akira's hand in marriage wasn't ever something he requested of him to prove his love or loyalty. All he wanted was that enthusiastic model by day and eager lover by night, hands covering his skin in the dark like his eyes always danced across Akira's in the light.

It was Akira who asked him, Akira who wanted to be bound to him in yet another way. Then there was the question of who would change their surname, but to Akira, it wasn't a matter up for debate.

"I'll be Kitagawa Akira," he had said, already prepared to shed his own family name. The only time Yusuke ever even met his family was by chance when he was visiting Akira out in his hometown after he left Tokyo. They weren't very involved with their son while he was alive, nor did they offer to help Yusuke with the funeral arrangements after he had passed.

Something about Akira's immediate willingness to give up his own name warmed Yusuke — his boyfriend wanting to be part of his family like that forever — but it saddened him, too. He might've had difficulty giving up his own name if Akira asked. It's one of the few remnants he still has of his parents' own union.

The house seems much larger when he's by himself. The steps creak louder than he remembers, and as he runs his hand along the railing, it's coated in dust. Their home was beautiful once: full of paintings, sculptures, and knickknacks that Yusuke loved. Something in the silence shatters that serenity he had worked so hard to build — to make a home for himself and Akira after their guardians had disappointed them in more ways than one.

When he lies down on their futon, he stares up at the ceiling coated in darkness. He can see shapes twirl about, and if he focuses hard enough, he thinks he can make out remnants of Akira: the fluffiness of his hair, the gray of his eyes, the curve of his jaw that Yusuke came to know so intimately.

In yet another cruel twist bent by fate, sleep evades him. It was so easy with Akira by his side, curling up against his back as his thoughts and aspirations of the day swept away, leaving nothing but a sense of calm. Those peaceful nights leaving him, and so soon after they had begun, never crossed his mind.

Akira is dead. No longer is he here to clean, to kiss him, or to let Yusuke paint him. His muse has left him, disappeared to a place he cannot follow to just yet. He wants to be with him, wherever that may be, but his grief anchors him to the home he and Akira built up.

In the morning, the darkness ebbs away, and the light of the sun streaming through the windows reveals what Yusuke had so desperately wished to avoid.

Paintings of Akira. All along the walls with some still set upon easels, others carefully stacked together on the floor. In the living room, there's even a mural of him on the ceiling, an ode to the man he loves. This painting was special to him, not only because of the content and the fact that it was the largest work he's ever done, but because of the colors he used. When he first started painting Akira, he tended to use washed-out, earthy tones. He was a teenager back then who had finally convinced his crush to pose for him, hands shaking every time his brush dipped into a glob of color.

The painting on the ceiling is different. He used exaggerated, bright colors — lavish and whimsical. They made Akira look ethereal and not quite of this world.

In a way, the painting foretold disaster. Yusuke still loves it, though, as he remembers Akira making suggestions as he worked. He never would have used that maroon to flush the glow of his cheeks if Akira hadn't mentioned it.

It was a mutual effort. A labor of love on both their parts.

Yusuke lies on the living room floor, staring up at it. The sunlight from the window illuminates Akira's everlasting smile, and for the first time, he wants to destroy it — to take a knife and slash that smirk right off his face, to gouge out the eyes that once stared at him with such affection.

"Why did you leave me?" he asks, despite knowing Akira never would have left him of his own accord. Even living with Madarame, and occasionally other students that his sensei had taken in, he was alone. He never imagined life could be any different for him until he met Akira; he didn't know any single person could have so much love to give. And then it was all taken from him so suddenly in a cruel jab of irony.

It's late afternoon by the time he finally peels himself off the floor, body aching and limbs shaky. He drags himself around the house, throwing each of the hung paintings to the floor. Something in his conscience weighs heavy as it tries to stop him, but for once, he doesn't follow his muse. He sets upon a portrait with his hands, scratching at the canvas. A strange, garbled sound meets his ears, and he realizes it's his own voice. It's the first time he's heard it in weeks.

His fingers accomplish little, so he grabs a knife from the kitchen to enact more damage. He'll burn them later — until there's no evidence that they ever existed.

Akira was beautiful in life and he is beautiful in death, but Yusuke's anguish supersedes that. Although he's always pursued the expression of true passion in his art, it agonizes him to see Akira now, entombed in his paintings. It's selfish, but he wants it all gone, for the world to never experience such beauty again.

If Yusuke can't have Akira — to hold and to love — he doesn't want the world to have him, either. The world is unworthy of him and his grace, and he wonders if that's why he's gone now.

It's self-centered of him and driven by his grief, but he's hurting too much to stop now. He'll regret it later, more than he's ever regretted anything, but for now, he lets his rage loose.

Eventually, the only painting left intact is the one on the ceiling. He lies on the floor again, exhausted and covered in flecks of hardened paint and bits of canvas. He reaches his hand up toward him, the love of his life so close and yet so far, but Akira doesn't reach back.

Akira just smiles.

* * *

When Yusuke wakes up in the morning, Akira is gone. For a moment, he wonders if his husband woke up first and decided to make breakfast to surprise him in bed like he often does. But then Yusuke remembers that he's lying on the living room floor, and he remembers that Akira is dead.

This time he doesn't even bother dragging himself off the floor. This is where he belongs, wretched and lost. He is an artist who has lost not only his will to create but his will to live.

Then he hears a soft laugh, and he whips his head to meet the sound so fast that it makes his neck ache.

There on the sofa is Akira, gazing at him as if nothing is wrong in the world — as if Yusuke isn't lying on the floor gawking at him, and as if he isn't dead. He's sitting in the very spot Yusuke had him pose when he started to paint the ceiling mural.

"You aren't real, are you?"

Yusuke licks his lips, thinning his eyes to focus on the man reclining on the couch. If he looks too long, maybe he'll disappear, proving to be a mirage.

Still, the phantom remains. Akira beckons to him, and Yusuke, in his loneliness, heeds his call. Every step toward him is painful, as he assumes he'll disappear by the time he makes it to the couch.

But Akira is still there, reaching out to cup his cheek. His hand is so warm, and Yusuke closes his eyes at the tenderness. He shouldn't be seeing these things, shouldn't be feeling this, but now that he's been sent this gift, he doesn't know how to refuse it.

When Akira's hand runs through his hair, he chokes back a sob. Yusuke always loved when he touched his hair; he was always soothed by the gentle caress, an intimacy he only ever bestowed upon Akira.

"I miss you so much," he says, forcing his eyes open. If Akira is visiting him somehow, whether or not it's just his imagination, he wants to soak in every moment.

"Yusuke." His voice is the same as he remembers: full of love as he croons his name, but there's sadness, too. "You need to paint."

This, out of everything that's happened so far, is what takes him aback. He hasn't had the heart to paint ever since Akira died; he hasn't even been able to hold a brush without snapping it in two. He wonders if he has any left or if this phantasm of his beloved will demand he paint with the broken stubs.

"But what? What am I supposed to paint when you're gone?"

"Anything you want," Akira says, and then his body shimmers with a soft glow before dissipating. Yusuke reaches for him, his hands meeting nothing but the still air despite him being so real before, so tangible.

He's never painted Akira without a direct reference before. Although he's filled multitudes of sketchbooks with figure studies, he's never ventured into the use of color without Akira posed before him.

_Paint what I want._

_What is it that I desire?_

As he sets up a fresh, unsoiled canvas in the living room — the only room he feels alive in anymore, thanks to Akira's visit — he ponders the parting words of his husband.

_I want you back._

Streaks of paint on canvas, stark against the bleak cream. The colors almost seem to glimmer, but that must just be a trick of the light, taunting him with possibility.

_I just want you back._

He paints until every muscle in his body aches, pauses for a while to contemplate just what it is he's even trying to accomplish, then paints some more. As the light of dawn creeps through the window, he finally stops, satisfied with what he has so far.

When Akira was alive, he never painted them together. Capturing their feelings for one another within his work wasn't something he considered; his thoughts were all on Akira. Now, though, he follows the guidance he was provided: he painted them lying together in their futon, blanket pulled up to their otherwise bare chests. Akira's hands are twisting in his hair, lips pressed to his forehead.

_Is this true passion? _

_A love that conquers even death itself._

The painting almost feels alive in the way it captures his raw desire: to cease his loneliness, to be comforted, and to be reunited with Akira once more.

He lies on the floor again, staring up at the ceiling. Akira has returned to the painting as if it's his home — as if he belongs there. In a way, it's almost like falling asleep beside him, his eyes darting open every so often to make sure he's still there, but it lacks the warmness he's used to. The affection he craves.

Once he's dreaming, the edges of his vision foggy, he knows he's asleep. He hears dishes clattering in the kitchen, and although it reminds him of when Akira was alive — when he'd work for hours to prepare the best meals for him — there's a soft echo that reminds him that none of it is real. He doesn't compare the fakeness of it with what's happening when he's awake, with his paintings of Akira somehow coming alive; he doesn't have that sense of perception right now.

Instead, he watches Akira in the kitchen, slicing up a small fish. He can't smell the ripeness of the fish at all, can't fathom the stench of the sea. The room just smells like Akira: coffee, flowers, and warmth.

As they sit down to eat, only Yusuke has a plate set before him. Akira picks bits of flesh off his plate, his fingers digging into the fish without a thought for any sort of utensil.

Beneath the table, Akira's bare foot touches his own. He shivers as it slides further and further up his leg, teasing him with sensations that seem so close and yet so far away.

Despite knowing that something even more tantalizing is awaiting him when he awakens, he doesn't want the dream to end. He just wants Akira here with him like he used to be, even if it's just a dream.

* * *

His body jolts as he wakes up, eyes meeting Akira's on the ceiling. A sadness burrows into the pit of his stomach because if Akira is up there, he won't be sitting on the couch again; he won't be real enough for Yusuke to hold.

But then he hears a soft creak from upstairs, and when he turns to look at the painting he was working on yesterday, he's the only one lying on the futon. He jumps up, ignoring the aches in his body from painting all day as well as sleeping on the floor for two days in a row. His feet stumble up the stairs as he rushes, but he grabs onto the railing to steady himself. Another creak. Time seems so slow as he pushes open the door to their bedroom.

Akira is lying on their bed, his bare chest peeking out from beneath the covers. His dark hair is a mess, scraggly and wild from sleep.

"What took you so long?" Akira asks, offering him his hand. "Come to bed."

Yusuke's hunger consumes him. He kisses him like a man starved of love, his tongue slipping between his lips as he crushes Akira to his chest.

_Real. So real._

He tastes just like he remembers: of the dark, savory coffee he always drinks in the morning. It was a habit he picked up after boarding at Leblanc, and it's something Yusuke never thought he'd be able to taste again.

Akira's body meets his with the same amount of fervor, if not more. His hands twist in his hair, pulling him closer. When Yusuke tosses the covers back, he feels Akira hard and warm against him. He always worshipped Akira's body when he was alive, mapped out and memorized every inch with his hands and lips, but now, it seems like it wasn't ever enough. Not even an eternity of intimacy could quench his thirst for Akira.

As they kiss, Akira guides him to lie on his back before perching atop his hips; this was his favorite position back when he was alive. He grabs the lube they keep beside the bed — who else would know this but Akira, after all — and presses his fingers inside himself, moaning Yusuke's name as he does so.

Yusuke holds onto his hips, half-delirious as he watches his eyes slip shut. He brushes back sweaty bangs before moving to cup his cheek, and Akira uses his free hand to hold it there.

A mere look from him can set Yusuke off. It's in his eyes, lips, smile. Akira emanates a sort of cool confidence that attracts him, like his paintbrush itching to meet canvas. Even more alluring is the way he looks at Yusuke and no one else, as if his whole world revolves around him.

Akira unhooks Yusuke's belt and pulls his pants down, his fingers dancing along his thighs, teasing him. It's so close and yet so far, but before Akira can start his usual spiel of making him beg, Yusuke grabs his hand, bringing it to his arousal. He doesn't have to ask; the hand that had held his face just moments before strokes him now, squeezing all the spots he knows he loves.

Then his hand is gone and Akira is leaning over him, his body sinking down onto him. The feeling is like nothing else he can imagine; it's a heat that defies words and even art. It's the love that he can only hope his paintings might scratch the surface of.

"Yusuke." His name, low and strained — a prayer on his lips. "It feels so good."

Like so often when they're intimate, he struggles with a response. Akira speaks enough for both of them as he rocks his hips, telling him how much he loves him, how much he misses him. Every inch of skin that Yusuke touches is covered in sweat, making his grip slippery. Still, he explores, running his hands up his chest; he won't take this moment for granted.

Before, whenever they would start their intimate dance — with Akira pinning him to whatever surface he'd decided was suitable for the time being — it was always Yusuke being made to plead. But then it would evolve into a symphony of erratic moans as Akira begged him instead: faster, more, more.

He hasn't come since the last time he and Akira were intimate, which was weeks ago. He feels the end bubble up inside him far too soon, and he reaches for Akira's cock, stroking him even as his wrist aches and shoulder burns. The pain is nothing; the pain is everything. If he could, he'd make love to Akira every day and every night, creating the most beautiful art on the canvases that are their bodies.

Coming inside Akira has never felt so good; it has never felt like such a relief as his whole body shakes and trembles. Akira kisses him, their moans meeting in each other's mouths. When he finishes in his hand, Yusuke can feel the warmth — the wetness.

Before long, Akira is ready for another round. He plays with Yusuke's nipples as he rocks his hips, tempting him. Yusuke pulls him back down for a kiss — just a kiss, as he's too exhausted for much more right now.

He'd thought he lost him, the love and muse of his life, and yet here he is before him. It's only been a few days since Akira has returned to him, and he's still reeling with possibilities as well as the reality of it all.

Akira understands, as he always does. He rolls off Yusuke and cuddles up against him, pulling the covers over them.

For a moment, Yusuke thinks to ask what death is like. He wonders how it might feel — and whether it's just an infinite nothingness — not for himself, but his art. Although he wouldn't be able to create from his own perspective, he could paint through Akira's eyes; he could attempt to express his experiences through sketches, pouring every ounce of himself into each piece.

He doesn't ask, though. He's too tired, and for once, he's afraid to know the answer. As if knowing how it all works might negate the magic of it.

Regardless, his inspiration has returned. His Akira is home.

When he wakes up, Akira is gone, but he isn't worried. He knows he only has to paint him once more; for every time he wishes to see him, he must carve out their love with color upon canvas.

To Yusuke, it seems like a reasonable enough compromise.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't find the notes I had on Yusuke's dream, but the meanings I had looked up were symbolic and went something like this:
>
>> Eating fish: Yusuke is worried about the future.
>> 
>> Akira's feet: Due to Yusuke's grief, he's focused on missing Akira so much that his own wellbeing ends up suffering.
> 
>   
It's not super important, but I thought I'd note it.
> 
> Happy Halloween!


End file.
